Chase A Squirrel

He was afraid to touch her because he said his hands were rough. He rubbed them together like he was testing them to see for sure or to use them like sandpaper on each other. “They might feel like bricks,” he claimed.
She said, “They don’t feel rough to me.” He hadn’t touched her yet but he always said that and they never felt any rougher than a loofah might, if that. Mostly they just felt strong and sure and like they loved her. Good, working hands that often reached back to find one of hers whenever they were walking somewhere where he might worry about a crowd separating them or just to keep her closer to him.
He had been out on their tractor and doing lots of manual work that day as most all days he did the same. For some reason that made the rough hands more attractive and not hard to take at all — more like a pleasing scratch when they found their way around the surface of her naked body or even just her face.
He took her face in his hands and asked her if they felt too rough to her. “No, not rough at all,” she assured him.
He gave her a little tap and said, “We’ll pick this up later.” He had just come in to get a drink of water and to put his hands around her face to hold it and kiss it once before he went back out.
She kept sweeping the floor and looked out the kitchen window to see him back out on the tractor moving dirt around — the dog following beside or running off to chase a squirrel. He was getting their land shaped right for planting and channeling the rain — just the earthworks not plowing.
They were making this life together — way out in the boonies where the distant train sounds were far enough away to sound like music — romantic lullabies to help them fall asleep once a hard day’s work was done and his rough hands could come to lie in bed with her again.

Trying To Laugh

Kit the cat kept laughing at Bog the dog because Bog kept trying to laugh too but nothing came out but a bark.

Kit really wasn’t laughing as far as any humans knew, but Kit didn’t speak Bog’s language so thought that laughing sounded like meow and kept meowing wildly thinking it was laughing coming out and that sooner or later Bog would get the clue that chiming in meowing was in order.

Whatever was still funny Bog didn’t know but kept on trying to ask Kit what they were trying so hard to laugh at since Kit’s belly was heaving in and out leading Bog to believe that Kit was still trying to laugh.

It started out with Bill the bird getting out of his cage and Kit and Bog thought Bill was quite the star for getting free and started laughing out of nervousness that Bill would get found out and put back in his cage.

But then Kit couldn’t quit because once laughing gets started it’s something that goes on and on until enough yelling from a human puts the kibosh on it.

“Bark”, “Meow” went on and on until Kit and Bog were starting to strain their voices and then Morris the horse came whinnying into the conversation.

Bill was shrilling, Morris was whinnying and Kit and Bog were, by that time, getting laryngitis — so laughing stopped being funny and everybody settled down.

Kit curled up and started purring.

Bog tossed the ball off the wall while ignoring Bill the bird sitting on the curtain rod and Morris returned to the barnyard stall.

No humans had to intervene and everyone had fun for just a little while.

Ten Times Ten

It isn’t writer’s block because there are no end of stories swirling in the brain. It’s possibly because of heat made worse by humidity  — Monsoons tormenting off in the distance — and a little bit of sleepless night.

Ten times ten — one hundred things were written today but none could find itself.

There was one about dogs and boys and another about dogs and boys but in completely unrelated ways — even this won’t come out right. One was that dogs seem like boys and cats like girls and the other was about a boy who hid some puppies and liked to pull wings off flying things and likely became a serial killer. Lots of dogs and cats and puppies and pigs, but none were willing to fulfill their end of the bargain. I especially liked the tales about Sambo and her puppies.

So that’s it for today. The writer is exhausted and wondering if anyone cares anyway — not that it matters one iota because, as it is, someone who likes to write must write whether anyone wants to hear or not.

Ten times ten is still one hundred. Thank God for maths at least.

Just so you know, yesterday was edited to death and might be fun to read again?? Seems much improved to the writer.

ten times ten